


a trick of the light

by duets



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, basically fingon is ded and gil is his kid idk, fuck da canon pawlice lol, mad maedhros is my gurl, warnings for second person i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:11:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duets/pseuds/duets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mercury burns too, you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a trick of the light

There's a fire in your arms and it speaks of Findekáno's death, of your eyes gone. It tells of black hair turning into ash and of missing arrows, split, burnt wood. You lost your tongue along with his blood and nothing tastes copper anymore. But the weight of your sword wrapped around your shoulders is still there, keeping you down.

There's a fire in your arms, coal-scorching and small, stronger than the ones your father kissed, taller than the Trees in Valinor. Cast in gold and silver thread, it tells of _your_ death and of an age younger and older than yours. The fire bruises your skin and you smile up at her, sympathy and fear, for she was once Findekáno's too and you share that guilt.

There's a fire in your arms and she calls it Ereinion, son of the Valiant, and your king because of that. It speaks of feathers and of marred blood, slayed waters. One day that fire will burn higher than the oath you robbed and faster than the song that murdered you into lasting. 

The fire calls you and its ashes curse your eyes, already too blind to recognise pain. It burns white and fearless and young. The fire calls for you and you are not Maitimo, the lips gone with the right. 

You go to the fire and she smiles, notes of him on her neck, burning too. He answers to your step and brightens you into obedience, his dust calling to the one in your lungs. You bow and do not speak of him, hold your tongue with the memory.

The fire's core is grey, slits of cold in its strength, like Findekáno's before it; and you cannot find it in yourself to look away, even if you know your sight betrays you.

She speaks of grief and fallen warriors, lost brothers, but those are only words and not their meaning, so you do not listen and she pretends not to allow herself to feel.

It looks at you-- _He_ \--and nods, and you know his strings are her; that she is both moulder and matter of who they are. You blink and it asks after you, examines your scars and whispers for the rotten flesh from the fields. It is only blood, you tell his concerned face, only skin. Not really yours, not entirely anyone else's.

There is a fire around you, and it speaks in hanging flames, pale sand down your throat. He doesn't understand what he is beyond himself yet, doesn't know his role of forger: Still thinks in matters of being only coal. 

He speaks of one half lost, of armies and kin and of Helluin casting light over despair. He is fire, just as he believes himself to be, and one day he will burn wounds better than any knife, mark in ash and iron his dead. 

He turns when she speaks, and allows himself to be burnt out for a moment; loyalty in arms. His eyes cast down and he leaves ice and frozen earth in his wake. None of what he reminds of is his and you wonder how he stands it. Nothing really lasts, you think, not even his flame. But those are only words, not what they are and you missed their meanings way before they rested to one.

There is a fire in your eyes and it speaks of you and of Findekáno's death; a string of words for the mourning of the alive. You take one last breath and let yourself be consummed, both of you lying in the contentment of meaning nothing and being lesser still. There is a gust of wind and you know it burns _in_ now. You let yourself watch: Seeing is not important anymore, not in the absence of flame.

Her grip is firm in yours and she commands you into not missing. You do not speak of him to her, the meaning of what he was long lost. He is fire made into soldier and you spare him of discovering the mistake. Mercury burns too, you think. It drills mouths into red, disguises under steel and glass. But flame is a trick of the light.


End file.
